


The Battle's Eve

by WeCouldPretend



Series: Camlann [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arthur's well organized cavalry, Camlann fix-it, F/M, Fix-It, Galahad comes back from the dead, Galahad personally undoes this entire tragety, Hurt/Comfort, I won't tag them all - Freeform, M/M, Multi, The grail was the cause of a lot of this drama, This story mentions lots of characters, Very tired Galahad, bewitched Mordred, holy grail quest mentioned, none of this was Mordred's fault, patented Pendragon Family Nonsense, spectacular parenting, they will show up later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23114128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeCouldPretend/pseuds/WeCouldPretend
Summary: “Where is he?” The tent flaps flew open as Galahad stormed into the war council’s tent. The core war council was circled around a table there, covered in charts and maps, wrapped in armor and red cloaks. This was the mechanism behind Arthur Pendragon’s war machine, and it was turned north. The occupants of the tent had all fallen silent at his demand, and were staring at him.There, on the opposite end of the table, sat the King himself. Seated, crown abandoned, staring at him like he’d seen a ghost. “Galahad? Galahad is that you?”The grail knight nodded, acknowledging the astonishment on everyone's faces as he advanced into the tent. “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”Galahad's back from the dead and ready to fix whatever the hell happened in the three years he'd been absent from his family. Now recovered from what the Grail did to him, he's arrived in Arthur's war camp on the eve of the battle of Camlann in a last ditch attempt to break the spell that holds his partner bound. He's got his work cut out for him if he's going to put an entire civil war to a stop in the course of a couple hours.
Relationships: Cei/Branwen, Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian), Guinevere/Lancelot du Lac/Arthur Pendragon, Tristan/Palomedes
Series: Camlann [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662184
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	1. Greatly Exaggerated Reports

“Where is he?” The tent flaps flew open as Galahad stormed into the war council’s tent. The core war council was circled around a table there, covered in charts and maps, wrapped in armor and red cloaks. This was the mechanism behind Arthur Pendragon’s war machine, and it was turned north. The occupants of the tent had all fallen silent at his demand, and were staring at him. 

There, on the opposite end of the table, sat the King himself. Seated, crown abandoned, staring at him like he’d seen a ghost. “Galahad? Galahad is that you?”

The grail knight nodded, acknowledging the astonishment on everyone's faces as he advanced into the tent. “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” 

He moved forward, taking his place by the map table with the rest of Arthur’s men. He was spattered in mud and rain, freezing cold and journey wearied, but nothing in the world would keep him from this table. He’d ridden hard and fast from where he’d been recovering in Sarras from his nearly mortal wound, praying he would arrive in time.

“How did you… Percy thought you’d died when he left. He brought your things back. How are you alive?” Gawain marveled, leaning across the table to look at him more closely. It was almost as if he was trying to see through him, attempting to spot the flaw in the mirage in front of him. 

“It was a near mortal affliction. I was recovering. I had only just become well enough to travel when I received the news of the goings on here. I came as soon as I could.” Galahad explained curtly, daring anyone to question him further on the topic. To the contrary, Arthur himself rose and moved swiftly around the table and the other knights assembled to come face to face with Galahad. 

“I can honestly say that I have never been more glad to see you in my life, Galahad.” Arthur grinned, pulling him into a warm hug and holding him tightly, as if it was the only thing that had brought him joy in weeks. Judging by the looks Gawain and Cei shot him over Arthur’s shoulder, that assessment might have been more true than he had assumed. Galahad gladly returned the hug, allowing himself a moment to press his face into the familiar leather armor on Arthur’s shoulder, the way he’d used to when he and Loholt were growing up in Arthur’s army camps. He allowed the man who had helped raise him, who had read him stories and played make-believe with him to hold him for a moment. He clearly needed to. But that had been a lifetime and several wars away, and they had precious little time for reminiscing. Other, bigger things had been put into motion that never should have happened, and it was up to them to fix it. 

“I’ve missed you too.” Galahad had missed this more than he could ever possibly share, but the vital task at hand drew his attention. “Do you know where he is?”

Arthur pulled back, suddenly all business. “Your father should be back any minute. He’s getting me a final count on horses for tomorrow. He’s going to be very excited as well. Your timing-”

“Yes, we’ve covered that, and I wasn’t talking about him.” Galahad’s patience was starting to wear thin. “Where is Mordred.”

The king pulled in a deep breath, shuddering and slow as he stepped back from Galahad and returned to his place at the head of the table. “Galahad, why don’t you tell us how much you know. It will be easier to fill in the gaps if I know what you already do.”

Galahad stepped between Tristan and Bedevere, whom he regarded with a strange glance. Bedevere wasn’t a commander, he was filling in as one of Holt’s captains. He looked around, taking stock of the assembled faces. It was the commanders and some of the captains, the leaders of Arthur’s army. Tristan, and his captains, Branwen and Palomedes. Gawain, Gaheris and Geherent, the Orkney triad. Captain Bedevere, missing his commander, Loholt, and the other captain, Gareth. Arthur, with his captain and champion missing and Lucan wearing the mantle of the other captain. The one that should have belonged to him. Bors had brought Cullwich and Brunor along with him. He was the only Du Lac at the table. 

“I got word that my adoptive brother and your eldest son had been gravely injured in a negotiation with a war band. I heard that the leader of the war band was your middle son. The letter informed me that tensions were building between the high kingdom and the north, and that the great High King Arthur Pendragon may have finally met his match. I heard that the Saxon had weakened you early in the season, and that the North planned to chase you home with the frost. Naturally I came as fast as I was able. Now. Explain.” Galahad demanded, refusing to look at the rest of the silent occupants of the tent as he braced his hands against the map and stared his King down. 

“Well. most of that is true. Mordred leads the war band. He… He did not take your greatly exaggerated death in stride. When the grail returned and you did not...It changed him. I’ve never seen anything like it. He just left one day. Loholt and Gareth were injured in the first attempts at reconciliation. They were sent for peace talks. They barely made it out in one piece, but they made it nonetheless. It’s only thanks to them that we mobilized the cavalry in time to meet the war band here.” Arthur explained, folding his hands on the table. He shifted them back and forth as he spoke, a sure sign of the King’s stress. Galahad had seen him do that same motion plenty of times, usually at the planning meeting on the battle’s eve. 

“Tomorrow. You’ve planned for tomorrow haven’t you.” Galahad sighed, resisting the urge to bury his hands in his head. Undoubtedly the same urge that Arthur himself was fighting. 

“Arthur? Arthur I think I’m going insane.” The voice coming from the tent flap was one Galahad could never mistake for another. The voice of his father. “I swore I just saw Irida in her usual tack in the courtyard and I know we didn’t get her or that tack back after Gal-” The Champion stopped mid-sentence as the tent occupance turned to face him. He stood there for a beat, mouth open as he stared at his son. 

“Hello Father.” Galahad managed to say around the lump in his throat. He’d underestimated this. He’d underestimated his own strength. He’d underestimated the emotion behind seeing his father again. 

“You’re alive. Oh gods. Galahad.” Lancelot whispered, slowly coming forward with one hand outstretched, as if touching Galahad would make him disappear. 

“Yes. I’m sorry it took me so long to come home.” That was all that Galahad managed to spit out before his father uncharacteristically enveloped him in a bone crushing hug. Galahad clung to his father, relishing the concrete affirmation of the hug. Lancelot had never really been the type of person for public displays of affection. Never with his lovers, and rarely with his children. Then again, these people were as much family as anything, and he’d seemingly just resurrected himself from the dead, so it wasn’t entirely out of nowhere. He let himself hold and be held for longer than he’d allowed his other parent. His father had clearly taken the events of the last few months hard, and his death harder. 

“You’re alright?” Lancelot asked, voice shaking slightly as he pulled back to hold Galahad at arm's length, inspecting him for wounds.

“Yes. And I'm here to help.” Galahad assured him, gripping his bracers tightly, the smooth black leather another familiarity. 

“Thank the gods. We need every horse and rider we can get.” Lancelot sighed, turning back to the table at Galahad’s side. He shared a quick, joyful, watery look with Arthur that told Galahad that there would be more than a few tears over his return when they were safely in private. 

“About that. I think I have a more effective plan.” Gawain hummed, tapping the hilt of his dagger against his lips as he regarded the map in front of them. 

“Gawain, we’ve been staring at this for hours. I don’t think there’s a better way of positioning the divisions than what we’ve got now.” Cei sighed, clearly coming back to whatever they’d been arguing over when Galahad walked in. 

“Oh, no I agree entirely with that. I got what I wanted here. No, I mean about Galahad. We have better use for you than just another warrior.” Gawain hummed, glancing at the resurrected knight and tapping the map with the same dagger he’d just put to his lips a moment ago. 

“Pray tell, what devious scheme have you got running now Gawain?” Tristan asked, off to Galahad’s left. They were now tight enough around the table that they all brushed shoulders, or shoulder-to-hip if sitting. Galahad was grateful for the Cornish prince. He had always been a reliable balance to Gawain’s schemes. 

“Galahad, do you remember what happened with Shalott? Do you remember how to break a curse?” Gawain asked, turning to him fully. Galahad nodded cautiously, waiting for the King’s nephew to continue explaining, not willing to open his mouth or committing to anything. He remembered better than most how Lancelot had broke the curse on the Lady of Shalott. He remembered how they had acquired his adoptive sibling. Gabrielle Elaine Du Lac, as she was now known, had drilled the process in to her older brother. How to shatter a binding curse. Galahad listened intently to Gawain, who continued to speak. “Good. Arthur, do you remember what Holt said when he woke up?”

“He… He said he’d never seen anything like it. He said that Mordred’s eyes were empty, like he wasn’t there. Like something else had glazed them over.” Arthur supplied haltingly, hating how Galahad winced at the words. 

“Yes, almost like Mordred was under a spell.” Gawain continued, his excitement mounting as he kept talking. “Sending in Holt and Gare wasn’t effective. Holt’s his brother and Gareth doesn’t have enough magic to fill an acorn cap. Sending that in against Mordred on any normal day wouldn’t have been an issue. A bewitched Mordred is a different story. We have the answer now. An option we didn’t last time.” 

Lucan considered it for a moment before speaking. “So, you want to send in Galahad, who has both enough magic to stop it, and enough emotional pull to shock him out of it if the cursebreaking fails. What happens when both of those things fail, hm?” 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Lu.” Galahad muttered.

“Hey, we almost lost Holt and Gareth. I’ve already lost you once. I’m not eager to repeat my mistakes.” Arthur snapped, pointing at Galahad in a warning way that was another relic from his childhood. 

“And you’ve been hurt. I can’t let you-” Lancelot began, before Galahad cut in again. 

“No, I want to go. We need to win this. Even with the reserve and what I’m assuming is at least a company of Gareth’s men in Camelot, we cannot leave the country undefended, especially not to the North, with the Saxons to the east and Morgause up there. This cannot decimate the cavalry. Not so late in the year.” Galahad insisted, looking around for someone to challenge him on this. “I’m well enough to ride, and if I’m well enough to fight tomorrow then I’m well enough to sneak into camp and try to take the head off the serpent.” 

Gawain looked down at the maps in front of him, trying to figure out how best to accomplish the plan he’d already begun. Brangaine was looking too, the spymaster plotting out the easiest route into the enemy camp. It was Lancelot who spoke up again. “Do we have any clue at all about what else might be in that camp? I hate the thought of you walking in blind.”

“We know that Morgause isn’t there. My mother keeps her stronghold in the North. We suspect that Agravaine is camped over here.” Gaheris tapped another set of sketched squares off to the left of the planned battlefield. It was clear that the Pendragon banner was set to the opposite end of the field, well away from both the other camps, and on a slight rise. The tactical advantage was theirs. Arthur had picked his stand well. It would, however, make it very hard to sneak into camp. “He’ll be alone. Not, mind you, unguarded, but with your talents he might as well be.” 

Galahad shrugged, thinking about it for a moment. He had the strength to keep up a cloaking spell if he needed to, but not for terribly long, and not if he wanted to include his horse in the cloak as well. He’d go on foot then, and slip through the camp unseen when he reached the edge of it. Then there was the challenge of Mordred himself. Could he work quickly and quietly enough to free Mordred from the grasp of the enchantment? Could he do it in time for the dawn, in time for the surrender? Would Mordred try to kill him? Could he lift a blade against him? It had been three years since he’d seen Mordred. If he thought he’d been unprepared for his father, this would be a whole other story. “So how will you know if this worked?” 

“Tie your cloak to a spear. Use it as a standard. We’ll know you’ve succeeded in the morning when we meet at dawn. If you’re not at the front of the line with a red cloak on a spear, we’ll assume you’ve failed and commence with the prepared proceedings.” Palomedes suggested, leaning around Tristan to meet Galahad’s gaze. 

“You should trade cloaks in before you go. Yours has seen better days.” Lucan grimaced, looking at the slightly faded, mud-stained and damp cloak, still with Galahad’s official designation as the Wolfpack Second on one shoulder and Arthur’s dragon on the other. The purple trim designating him as Champion to the High Priest was barely visible through the mud. 

“No. If I show up and I don’t have my own cloak on, he’ll notice. It might upset him more if I’m not the way he expects.” Galahad explained, looking down at his cloak sadly. It was going to have to be replaced if they lived through this. It had seen a few too many journeys to be serviceable. 

“Are you sure that you’re up to this son?” Lancelot’s propensity to brood over him like a mother hen was coming back full force, and if he didn’t stop it in its tracks soon, it would be as impossible as turning the tide.

“Yes. I am certain. I’ve already done much worse things in the name of this country. If I can’t change him, I’ll kill him.” Galahad spat, the words feeling dirty and wrong even to himself as they came out of his mouth. 


	2. Through the Mists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Absolutely. Best case scenario. Galahad finds our wayward princling, unbewitches him or whatever. Then tomorrow, they ride together out to meet us at dawn. If Galahad’s cloak is being used as a standard, carried by one of them, then they’ll meet myself and Lancelot and Arthur in the middle to officially begin peace talks. If he’s very, very smart, Agravaine will turn tail and run with his company. We don’t fight, nobody dies, we rally the troops and turn them North. We either absorb or disarm my Mother’s troops, go tear her down from whatever throne she’s appropriated from me this time, give me my land back and all make it back to Camelot in time for the harvest.” Gawain spoke, confidant and clearly pleased with himself for this change in plans. “Worst case scenario, we all die, Morgause takes my throne, my uncle’s throne, breaks every treaty with every Saxon we’ve ever made and plunges the land into a new and uncertain civil war.” 
> 
> In which Galahad and the rest of the war council come up with a plan to deal Mordred. Spells are cast, spoons are pointed vigorously, speeches are made and tears are shed. Arthur and Lance are great co-parents, and Cousin Brangaine just about hands Galahad his ass.

Arthur bit his tongue, trying to forcibly stop himself from the instinctual reaction to protect his own son from Lancelot’s. Or to protect Lancelot’s from his own. It wasn’t fair. He hated using his children as bargaining chips in his wars. He hated pitting them against each other, even during mock war games and tourneys. To do this as a form of war instead of just the concept of it had his stomach turning.  The very concept of Galahad killing his son as a last ditch effort to prevent another civil war was enough to make Arthur want to put his head down on the table and scream. 

“Are you sure that you can do that?” Tristan asked, putting a worried hand on his arm. Tristan of all people knew what losing someone you loved to bewitchment was like. He had lost and been lost. “Nobody would fault you if you said no to this. We understand.”

“I have to try. I rode for three days straight to get here in time to make a difference. If I have the slimmest chance of succeeding, I need to try. Auntie, how close can you get me to the camp on horse?” Galahad asked, checking the scale on the map and the distance across the soon-to-be battlefield. He tried hard not to think about the implications of that. That was one of his greatest challenges as a warrior. It was hard for him to go into battle knowing that those who surrounded him might not be there the next time they met. 

“Brangaine can get you within a hundred meters or so without being spotted if you’re quiet and patient. She’s on lookout tonight, so you’ll be able to catch her in a few minutes when she swings back through camp.” Branwen answered, curt and honest. Traits he’d always appreciated about his aunt. “She’ll be happy to see you again.”

“What do you need for the spell? I’ll have it brought here for you.” Lucan asked, pragmatic as ever. He rose from his spot near Cei in preparation to fetch whatever Galahad needed, knowing that he’d leave as soon as the required items had been collected. 

“Water, salt, and a feather. The smallest jar of fat you can find. A water skin you wouldn’t lament being rid of, so long as it doesn’t leak. My little slip of a sea witch has always responded best to salt water. I’m going to drown everything else out.” Galahad snarked, listing out the ingredients that he needed for the spell he was intending. “Anything physical tying him is going to go into the fire, but the rest I’ll douse.”

Lucan nodded, moving around the assembled cast of command in order to access the front of the tent. “I’ll be right back with most of that. The feather might be an issue, we only have the little ones in a couple pillows and feather quills, would either of those work?”

“No, they won't.” Lancelot responded, quicker than Galahad could manage. “Don’t worry about it Lucan, I’ll get one for him.” He then turned and made to leave the tent, but not before stopping to put a hand on Galahad’s shoulder. “Don’t leave without me giving it to you.”

“Of course.” Galahad nodded. He was trying to be understanding. It wasn’t always his strong suit. He had inherited his father’s instinctual clumsiness with emotions, but this was easy enough to read. Lancelot was afraid. 

Galahad forced himself to put the thought out of his mind as Lucan and Lancelot both shuffled out of the warm, dry tent and into the dripping rain. The weather had been nasty all day, but now Galahad found himself grateful for the cloud cover and the dampness. The blackness was all the more complete when the clouds blanketed the sky, and mirages like the one he was going to have to cast to get into the camp was easier to achieve completely when there was already something interrupting visual patterns. 

He was quickly interrupted from his scheming when Cei spoke again. “You must be starving. If you’re gonna die again, you might as well have some food before you go.” The senchenal grumbled, also rising from his seat. “Quit standing by the door like you’re about to bolt. Come here, sit, I’ll go get you some food.” 

“I’ll come too. I’m going to go check on the guard rounds and see what kind of timetable we’re working with.” Branwen stood and followed her husband towards the door. 

“Thanks. That would be greatly appreciated.” Galahad mumbled at his Aunt and Uncle, unsure of what else to say. He watched them go, feeling helpless as he shuffled around to sit by Arthur. He sank onto the stool gratefully, savoring the chance to rest. The King looked him up and down again as if he would disappear if he looked away. Galahad met his eyes, watched the shape of his brow as he fought between being the king he needed to be and the parent he wanted to be. Galahad merely leaned into Arthur’s side and let his shoulder press into Arthur’s. It was as much reassurance as he had the energy to give. 

“How is my family?” Palomedes asked from where he was across the table, clearly trying to bring in a more lighthearted conversation. 

“Very well. Safia sends her regards. Safia also wants you to send a list of things when we have all this wrapped up. She’s been pretty pissed about the lack of contact.” Galahad sighed, smiling fondly at the memory of Palomedes’ stern and hawkish sister grumbling about supplies and armor. “She’s perfectly fine though. She runs that outpost with an iron fist and the whole island knows it.” 

Palomedes smiled knowingly as Tristan nudged him, teasing gently. “What, did you think she’d have started taking land for herself or something?” 

“That is a fight I might not win.” Arthur cracked a smile, clearly thinking about the soldiers he’d stationed on the island. 

“She’d love to hear you say that, I’m sure.” Palomedes grumbled, drawing another laugh from Tristan and Gawain. 

Lancelot slipped into the tent behind them and shook like a dog, sending water droplets scattering everywhere. Tristan and Bedevere both groaned, one in defeat and the other in disgust at being wet. “I’ve got it. And the fat. Lucan is going to be a minute or two with the other supplies.”

“And I’ve got food for you.” Cei walked in behind Lancelot, nudging the champion into the tent as he shuffled in with his cape over a plate piled full of food. It was standard dinner for the camp, bread and hearty soup and venison, but it had never looked as good to Galahad as it did in that moment. Arthur helped him quickly shuffle maps and parchment out of the way as Lance and Cei came to sit back down with them. 

Cei put the food down in front of Galahad and then retreated back to his wife’s seat before Lancelot set his own bounty on the table. It consisted of a sealskin pouch the length of his dagger blade and a palm sized clay pot stoppered with wood. Tristan cocked an eyebrow at Lancelot as he set them down. Galahad quickly put the other objects out of his mind and dug into the food with gusto. 

“While we’re stalled here,” Bors spoke up. He motioned towards Galahad, who was inhaling the soup like it would disappear if he let it get even slightly cooler. “Can we go over the best case scenario again?”

“Absolutely. Best case scenario. Galahad finds our wayward princling, unbewitches him or whatever. Then tomorrow, they ride together out to meet us at dawn. If Galahad’s cloak is being used as a standard, carried by one of them, then they’ll meet myself and Lancelot and Arthur in the middle to officially begin peace talks. If he’s very, very smart, Agravaine will turn tail and run with his company. We don’t fight, nobody dies, we rally the troops and turn them North. We either absorb or disarm my Mother’s troops, go tear her down from whatever throne she’s appropriated from me this time, give me my land back and all make it back to Camelot in time for the harvest.” Gawain spoke, confidant and clearly pleased with himself for this change in plans. “Worst case scenario, we all die, Morgause takes my throne, my uncle’s throne, breaks every treaty with every Saxon we’ve ever made and plunges the land into a new and uncertain civil war.” 

“You can shut up now.” Galahad growled, pointing his spoon at Gawain menacingly. Or. As menacingly as he could while hunched over his food. “He said best, not worst.” 

“Just including a little context is all.” Gawain shrugged, grinning in his most aggravating way. 

“I did say best though. So we’re going to go with that for now?” Bors asked, rubbing at his eyes and flatly refusing to meet Gawain’s gaze. 

“It’s the best shot we’ve got to avoiding unnecessary bloodshed, so, yes.” Arthur responded. He sounded as tired as Galahad felt. 

“Where is my asshole of a cousin?” Brangaine burst into the command tent, just as Galahad was trying to fit half of a slice of bread in his mouth at once. The aforementioned knight merely looked up from his food, shellshocked at the sudden loud interruption of the fragile peace he’d found sandwiched between the King and his Champion. 

“Uh….here.” Galahad muttered, hastily swallowing an uncomfortably large amount of bread. 

“You absolute bastard! You’re alive? We haven’t heard from you in almost  _ three _ years and now you come waltzing back in here, on tonight of all nights?” Brangaine stalked into the tent, soaked and dripping all over the marginally dry tent floor. The fury of Cei’s daughter was almost enough to make Galahad want to scramble backwards. “Well, what are you waiting for? I deserve a hug for all this bullshittery.” Galahad quickly scrambled to his feet and met his cousin halfway as she pulled him into another very tight hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. Mum says you’ve got a plan. If it includes knocking some sense into Uncle Arthur’s kid, I’m all for it.” 

“Ow, Bran, my ribs. I can’t help if you break them.” Galahad groaned, hugging her back nonetheless. She let him go, grinning the same huge grin she usually wore when they were about to get themselves into some serious trouble. 

“What’s the plan then? You gonna let me sneak you into camp so you can choke the Fae out?” Brangaine asked, staring cockily at Galahad. The knight had the good sense to look utterly sheepish, pointedly refusing to meet her gaze. “Oh my gods that is your plan. You’re literally going to beat it out of him.” 

“You don’t need to put it so ineloquently. It's magic. It just might be a little blunt.” Galahad grumbled as his cousin let him go. He quickly returned to his seat, and his meal, as his cousin circled around to stand by Tristan at the open spot in the seating arrangement. 

“So, what are we waiting for?” Lucan walked in, carrying a water skin and a jar of salt in each hand. He walked in and leaned across the table to hand Galahad the remaining items that the knight had requested. Galahad nodded in thanks, quickly taking the water skin and the jar. He pushed the the skin into his father’s hands and quickly uncorked it and poured about half of the jar of salt into the open mouth of the water container, muttering something quietly and in a strange, chirruping language that was largely unintelligible to the rest of the people gathered in the space. Galahad then dug around in his pockets for a moment before pulling out a dried sprig of some shriveled little plant. It was a violent shade of red.

“Is that-” Arthur asked, staring at the little herb. 

“Yes. Rue.” Galahad snapped. 

“Where did you-” Gawain stared in shock, staring first at the water flask and then at Galahad himself. 

“From him. Now let me work. I’ve planned this too well to let you ruin it now.” Galahad growled, very carefully reaching for the sealskin pouch that his father had set on the table in front of him. The rest of the room watched intently as he worked, silent observers to the arcane ritual. He unfolded it with the utmost amount of care and removed the object carefully sealed within the pouch. It was a feather so black it seemed to absorb the light from the brasier. He picked it up gingerly and traced the mouth of the water container, muttering quietly again in the strange language that he had spoken in before. He quickly stoppered the bottle and placed the feather back where it had been tucked away and looked up at his audience. “Well then. That just about does it for preparations.”

Lucan spoke up first, clearly unbothered by Galahad’s little spell. “Your ill mannered horse is waiting for you in the tack tent. She’s being made ready to move while Bran’s horse eats.” 

“I’m going to need all the time I can get. Bran, we should get going.” Galahad stood abruptly, slinging the water skin across his shoulders. 

“I’ll see you off. I trust I’m not needed for a few minutes?” Lancelot followed Galahad’s example, looking plaintively at Arthur either for permission or forgiveness. 

“I think we can all go. I doubt we’re going to get anything else done tonight. You all have your orders.” Arthur sighed, rising alongside Galahad and Lancelot as everyone else clattered to their feet to leave. “Brangaine, Galahad will meet you there in a moment. Go make sure everything else is ready.” 

There was a steady stream of grumbling as everyone shuffled out of the command tent and into the rain. Tristan stopped to throw a thumbs up at Galahad as Palomedes fervently wished him good luck. Gawain clapped him on the shoulder and informed him that he owed him a drink and a meal when the whole debacle was over. Cei merely whisked the plates away with a “there will be more of this tomorrow, you’d better be around to eat it.”, which was as close as Cei got to being emotionally vulnerable with anyone but his wife or daughter. Eventually the only people left in the tent were the King, his Champion, and his son. 

“Galahad. I still can’t believe you’re here.” Lancelot’s whisper was equal parts joy and fear. “Can I…”

Galahad pulled his father into another hug before Lancelot managed to get the words out himself. It was nice. Much nicer than Galahad had allowed himself to remember when he had been out, traipsing around the wilderness for years. It was a familiar comfort, his father had never shied away from letting him know he cared, but he savoured it all the more now. 

“I’m so sorry for all of this. We both are.” Arthur sighed from behind him, picking up the goblet he’d left on the table and draining it. Tears stood bright in his blue eyes. “For what you’re about to do, for what you already have. It’s not fair. We wanted to give you a better world than this.” 

Galahad rounded on him, pulling himself away from Lancelot to stare at the king. “Da, you and Baba and Mama have worked so hard. All of us kids know that. You gave us a generation of peace in a place that had seen precious little of it in many years. We grew up safe and loved, and none of that changes now that things have gone a little sideways. It’s alright. I don’t mind. We’re family, we help each other, it’s what we do.” 

For a moment, Arthur just stared at Galahad, and then he looked at Lancelot over his shoulder. “He absolutely does not get this kind of common sense from either of us, Lance.” 

“I think his oratory abilities might be yours, but that content is all Guin.” Lance laughed, a little weakly as Galahad turned bright red under their gaze. “Gods only know what he would have been like if my Elaine had lived any longer, his temper might have been twice as bad.” 

Arthur’s responding laugh was shaky at best as Galahad launched himself into another hug with the King. For a moment, it was enough. With Arthur’s arms around him and one of Lancelot’s on his back, the world was a safe place again. 

Eventually they detangled themselves and quietly stared at the table in front of them. “Galahad, take the feather. I meant to give it to you before you left last time. I’ve regretted letting you walk off without it every day since we stopped getting letters. It’s-“ 

“Yes, Baba, I know what it is. I know where it’s from. Thank you.” Galahad interrupted, not wanting to invoke the name without a reason. He snatched the waterproof package off the table and carefully tucked it into the inner pocket of his armor, the one that had been designed to carry love letters and an extra dagger. This was a better usage anyway. He also scooped the small jar off the table and pocketed it. 

“For the cloaking spell?” Arthur asked, moving towards the exit of the tent. Galahad nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak as they ducked back out into the rain.

Arthur’s army camp was almost more familiar to Galahad than Camelot. Though ephemeral in nature, the structure and basic layout of any of the Pendragon’s army camps hadn’t changed in the more than twenty years that Galahad had been wandering around them. He had improved on the roman style when he’d first made his bid for the kingship, many years ago and only deviated from the general design when necessary. It made it easy for Galahad to make his way around the camp, even after not having been in an army camp for a handful of years. Still, Arthur led the way to the tack tent, waiving to various soldiers in camp the way he usually did. It was worth the effort to keep up normal appearances to his soldiers, nobody needed to be rattled the night before a major battle.

Branwen met up with them partway through, quietly falling into step with Arthur as he walked. “Everything’s prepped to go Sire, we’re just waiting on the Captain.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” Arthur hummed, making an effort not to turn around and check to make sure that Galahad hadn’t disappeared into thin air in the ten minutes he hadn’t seen him. Bran quickly melted away into the shadows again, pausing only slightly to wish her nephew good luck on her way out. 

Arthur led the way into the tack tent, quickly ducking out of the rain and into the larger tack tent. Inside, a freshly brushed and saddled Irida nickered gently at her rider. Galahad came forward and gently rubbed her nose, speaking to his warhorse tenderly. “One more night girl, think you can handle that? We’re going to see Mordred and make things right.”

Unnoticed by the rest of them, Brangaine had slipped into the tent and onto her own warhorse next to them. Galahad looked over and nodded at her, ready to embark again. “I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.” Galahad took her reigns from where they’d been looped into part of her saddle and turned back to his father. “If everything goes south tomorrow, If I can’t get back to her, can you try to send someone for her? She deserves better than being left out here.”

“I’ll make certain. But I won’t need to.” Lancelot reassured him, putting a hand over the place in his armor where the feather now rested. “I believe in you.”

“We both do. Bring him home.” Arthur said solemnly, adding his own hand next to Lancelot’s, right over Galahad’s heart. Arthur’s words held a particular ring of finality, as if the words were going to resonate with Galahad until he had accomplished the task. It was one of the King’s particular skills, whether he knew it or not. It was a talent his children possessed too. Galahad tried hard not to think about it as he took a step back from them both and mounted his horse. Arthur’s voice rang out again, giving him the customary cavalry sendoff. “Goodnight, and joy be with you all.”

With Arthur’s last blessing spoken, the King and his Champion pulled back the tent flaps and allowed Brangaine and Galahad back out into the drizzle. They both nudged their horses out of the tent and slowly directed them out of camp, following muddying paths out into the woods that provided them cover. It was a long several minutes of riding before either of them spoke. The silence felt natural, if somber, between them. It wasn’t often that Brangaine was silent, but with the rain starting to subside and a mist rising up, something settled heavy in her chest. “You really had us all convinced that you were dead, you know?”

“It was never intentional. For a while, Safia was convinced I wasn’t going to make it. Without her knowledge, I wouldn’t have.” Galahad murmured. It was as close to an apology as she was ever going to drag out of him, and they both knew it. “For what it’s worth, I missed you all something terrible.”

“Yeah, I fucking bet you did. We missed you too.” Bran snapped, her voice not carrying any heat at all.

“Bran...How long was it after Percy got back… When did this all start?” Galahad asked, fully willing to use the creeping pace of the horses to interrogate his friend. 

“Six months. The grail got put in the treasury. I think… I think Mordred touched it. He was drawn to it. He didn’t want to see it at first, but then. It was strange. He started wandering down there. It changed him. We were all worried, but we thought he was grieving. He took it hard. We all did.” Bran explained, nudging her palomino closer to Galahad as the mist got heavier, Starting to obscure the trees around them. 

“This enchantment might be harder to break than I assumed. I pray it is not, but we cannot ask for miracles.” Galahad considered, touching the spot where his feather rested, the same way his father had when they’d left. “How much further till the edge of camp?”

“Not long, no more than ten minutes of riding.” They’d already let more than half an hour eclipse together. “What’s the plan.”

“I’m going to leave Irida here, I may have need of her in the morning. I’m going to leave her with you. Hide her nearby, somewhere Baba can find her if he needs to. I’ll cloak myself and use the mist as cover to get into the camp. He’s set his camp up as usual?” Galahad paused, allowing Bran to nod quickly, only barely visible in the moonlight. Galahad had run more than his fair share of wargames at Mordred’s side, he knew how Mordred set up his army camp. Different, very different from Arthur’s more earthworks based encampment. Mordred’s was intended to be labyrinthine and circular, with guard posts at regular intervals around the perimeter. Sneaking in would be simple. Magic or no, he could slip between the familiar intervals of guards without much effort. He’d been trained to do this. He never thought that he’d be putting it to this particular use, but he was glad he knew how. 

“His whole approach to this has been exactly like the strategies we used when we were younger. Almost like he was repeating an example from Uncle Arthur’s old Roman scrolls. It’s basic. His camp is the same as ever. Almost comically so. I still think it’s a trap. He’s too smart for this. We beat this tactic out of him years ago.” Bran admitted, looking around as if checking for listening ears. 

“That is concerning. I hadn’t considered the trap to come in that form. I assumed he’d be smarter than that. So he’ll be in the second ring of tents, at the back.” Galahad confirmed, letting Bran nod again to settle the pit in his stomach. “Good. That’s isolated enough from the heart of camp to be able to make some noise.”

“I don’t think you need to worry too much. Rumors around the camp are that he’s insane. Talks to himself all the time, screams, shouts, and kills anyone who disturbs him in his tent. So, you won’t be interrupted, but he also will probably try to kill you,” Bran advised, slowing her horse down from a walk to a gradual halt. “This is where I leave you to go do what I can’t. Good luck Galahad.”

The knight nodded, dismounting and staring off into the mist. “He’s there alright. I’d know him anywhere. Don’t wait for me.” 

Brangaine watched for a moment, letting Galahad take a deep breath before speaking again in the strange language that he had spoken in while casting the spell in the tent. Before her eyes, he started to fade into the fog that coated the earth. 

Galahad didn’t need to see where he was going in order to feel his way through the mist. It was dense, cloying in a way they hadn’t been mere minutes ago. It had rolled in thick and fast, masking his movements in the cloud. He breathed slow and deep as he crept, careful to be as silent as possible. He could see well enough to navigate, dark shapes appearing out of the mists in time for him to dodge out of the way of them, aided by his innate sense of the life forms around him. He could feel them around him, echoing in ripples out of the mists he had summoned. But he moved forwards steadily, towards the shape in the mists he knew best. The one that was sending shockwaves of pain off into the magically charged space around them.

Galahad bit his lip, forcibly ignoring the pounding of his heart at the thought of his partner in pain. The last time he’d encountered Mordred, the emotional pain had been the same. Mordred, in all his unfortunate clairvoyance, had known his quest was going to go wrong. Galahad had gone anyway. It was his fault that this had happened at all. If he had just listened better. But if dreams were horses, beggars would ride. And right now, Galahad needed to keep moving forward. 

Something pulsed off to his left. A guard. Galahad readjusted his path, passing so that the fog wouldn’t swirl around him as he passed, making him entirely undetectable, provided that nobody walked directly into him. It would be enough. He knew it would be. Soon after the guard, other life forms began to register. Clusters of people in tents, he could hear them talking quietly, occasional dogs, some horses here and there. The fog made it hard to navigate, so most people had found refuge in tents and were staying in them until the weather permitted otherwise. The tent he was looking for had one occupant. He checked, and double checked the magical signature as the tent loomed out of the mists.

It was easy to figure out the orientation of the tent from the moment it swam into view. This was it. It had been three years since Galahad had seen his partner, his lover, the only one he’d ever considered sharing his life with. But first. Silence was required. This tent, no matter how the events of tonight occurred, would harbor two voices. This was still the enemy camp, and both voices was too big a risk to leave to chance. He gently pulled the jar of fat out of his pocket and unstoppered it. Quickly, he dragged his fingers through the substance and smeared it on the canvas above the entrance flap. He muttered quietly, feeling the air around the tent grow thick and muted. The spell would hold for the night. 

Now, he had to go in. No more delays. No more excuses. It was just him and the thing in the tent. The shape that used to be his love. It was a challenge to tamp down his emotions as he took a deep breath and pushed into the tent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Please, please please comment, critique and kudos! I am but a sad, lonely writer trapped in an apartment due to a pandemic! Also, part three is written and the next work in the series is started! Lots of content, lots of feels about to occur. I'm @ Knight-of-the-Kitchen on tumblr, please come yell at me there if you really liked my stuff.


	3. Loyalty, Only To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brazier in the tent flickered, throwing deep shadows around the space. This too, was wickedly familiar. Mordred had crowded his camp bed up against one tent wall, and shoved the desk down towards where the light was best. The same setup he’d always used on campaign. And Mordred. Mordred was standing dead in the center of the room. Staring. The shadows bounced off of his face - too thin, too gaunt - making his face look like a skull. In that moment, Galahad wanted to scream. This was a ghost of the person he loved.

The brazier in the tent flickered, throwing deep shadows around the space. This too, was wickedly familiar. Mordred had crowded his camp bed up against one tent wall, and shoved the desk down towards where the light was best. The same setup he’d always used on campaign. And Mordred. Mordred was standing dead in the center of the room. Staring. The shadows bounced off of his face - too thin, too gaunt - making his face look like a skull. In that moment, Galahad wanted to scream. This was a ghost of the person he loved. 

The Shade that used to be Mordred moved, quick as a snake, quick as he had always been, and launched himself directly at Galahad. Deadly silent, it lunged. The Shade’s face was entirely blank, no spark of recognition present in the void-like eyes. It’s hands empty and balled into fists, it lashed out. Galahad panicked, dodging the first swing that the Shade threw at him, forcing his muscles to move faster than he’d trained for. The Grail’s affliction and the hard ride to camp had left him weak. Not too weak for this, he prayed. Adrenaline sang through his veins as he sidestepped and waited for Mordred to wheel around before charging him again. It was clumsy, the footwork sloppy and the movements fast, but jerky. This was not his love. This was something else. 

This time, he was ready. The initial shock still hummed at the back of his head, but he firmly ignored it as Mordred came at him again, a straight charge, no tricks, no extra footwork. Galahad watched him closely, waiting for the faint. It never came. Galahad took a step forward and met the thing in the middle of the tent, sinking his fist into the Shade’s solar plexus before it had time to react. Before Galahad had the chance to react to the familiar mewling whimper that Mordred emitted at the blow, Galahad hit him full force in the temple with his fist. 

The thing that used to be his love collapsed. Out cold. Galahad took a moment to assess his situation, bent over the body slumped at his feet. It was the most familiar thing in the world to Galahad. The slope of it’s back, the color of it’s hair in the firelight, the length of its legs. His breath caught in his throat as he fought the urge to break. He didn’t have the time for this. Emotions could wait. There was magic to do. 

Galahad worked quickly, forcing his body to move, forcing himself to reach for the thing on the ground and not to think of it as anything more than a shape. It was an object to be moved. And he moved it. He stretched it out and rolled it onto its back on the hard ground, trying very hard not to look at it’s familiar face. He had mere seconds before the thing in his arms would be awake, and he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to knock it out again. 

Before he could think too hard about anything that he was about to have to do, he quickly straddled Mordred’s hips and pinned him to the ground. Then he grabbed the waterskin from where he’d slung it around his shoulder and pulled it off, holding it in one hand as he pressed the other over the feather and began to pray. 

“Lady, powerful in death over life, she who holds dominion over the battlefield, she of the shifting face. Goddess of war, of the dying and of fate, hear my prayer. The fate of this one has been lead astray. He has been lost to that which holds no sovereign here. Lady, let him taste the salt of his own and remember.” The voice that emanated from Galahad was croaky, rasping, as if from the throat of the crow itself. He paid it no mind, not the strange language he was using or the words that emanated from somewhere within him. Instead he followed his instincts and uncorked the waterskin. He hesitated for a moment, and then emptied half of it’s contents over Mordred’s head. 

The prince spluttered back into awareness, panting, scared and cognizant of his surroundings for the first time in a year. Galahad was quicker, more aware, driven by something deep in his soul to finish the spell. Even as Mordred’s eyes went wide with recognition, Galahad pinned his shoulders to the ground and slapped a hand over his mouth. Chapped lips rasped against his hand as he continued.

“Great Lady, she of the still lakes and the raging rivers, guide him home. Wash away the enchantment which has bound him. Lady of Llyn Llydaw, hold him as your own, as you once did. Rush through him like the waves, sweep him clean like the riverbanks. Return your devout one to my shore, wash him home to me.” Galahad finished his prayer, finished it in the strange, rasping language he could not name. And with that, he dumped the rest of the saltwater over Mordred’s head. The prince writhed in his grasp, seizing as something shook loose from his body, from his very soul. Galahad held him still, pinning his shoulders to the floor as he attempted to keep what he hoped was his partner from hurting himself. Galahad thanked the gods that he had the strength necessary to pin the gaunt man to the floor. 

After a moment of struggle, Mordred went limp. He lay on the ground, breaths heaving through his chest as he finally lay still. Galahad froze in place, terrified of disturbing the fragile creature underneath him. He was suddenly painfully aware of Mordred’s hipbones digging into his thighs, sharp in a way they had never been before. The knobs of his shoulders were much the same, too sharp under the familiar hands of the person who knew him best. He bit his lip, trying hard not to shake Mordred awake and demand answers.

Slowly, Mordred’s breathing slowed to something more normal, and his eyes gradually opened. They were clear, the same piercing, Pendragon blue that his father and siblings possessed. Recognition was plain in his face as he stared up at Galahad, looking for all the world like he might dissolve into tears at the slightest movement. Galahad waited, breathless, for his partner to make the first move. Tentatively, Mordred took a deep breath, and spoke. 

“Galahad? Is that you?” The voice was raspy, as if Mordred had been rubbing his vocal cords with sand. It was croaking, dry, but entirely his own. Galahad felt some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he breathed in relief. 

“Yes love. I’m here. I always said I’d be here when you needed me, didn’t I?” Galahad responded, dredging up the strength to remain calm from somewhere deep in his soul.

“I saw you die. I watched it. You died in my visions. No breath, no beat, nothing. Oh Goddess, I must finally be dead. You must be my herald.” Mordred rambled, staring up at Galahad before the knight could interrupt him. 

“No! No you’re not dead.” Galahad blurted, shifting his weight and putting more of it on Mordred’s shoulders as he emphasized his point. “I’m really here. I’m alive. Palomedes’ sister figured out how to heal the affliction from the Grail. I’m alive. And so are you.” 

Mordred’s skeptical face spoke volumes. And for once, Galahad wasn’t afraid of the interpretation. He merely released his hold on one of Mordred’s shoulders and brought it up to stroke a line across Mordred’s over prominent cheekbone. He caressed his lover gently, trying to pour every inch of his affection, his longing, his heartbreak into that first gentle contact of skin on skin. 

Mordred leaned into the touch, allowing Galahad to brush soaking wet hair off his cheeks and forehead. Mordred responded in kind, weakly reaching up Galahad. The knight quickly caught the hand in his own, helping Mordred to press it over the sigil in his leather breastplate that Mordred had tooled into it himself. Weak fingers traced the worn lines of the leather before he pressed his palm over it, just as he always had. 

The sigil flared to life underneath his hand, blazing bright under the touch of it’s maker. The breath audibly caught in Mordred’s throat as the feather underneath the leather hummed with magic. Mordred closed his eyes, feeling the magic of a goddess seep into his skin. Galahad held his hand pressed to the rune for a moment, letting the magic sink into his flesh for as long as it seemed safe before curling his fingers around his hand and returning it back to Mordred’s side. He spoke quietly, as if afraid of breaking whatever small revere he had preserved.

“I’ve missed you. Like the sun misses the moon when day breaks. Your face fills my nights.” Galahad hummed the familiar line, the same one he’d said morning after morning in their close little room in the royal suite. The same one they’d found crouched over Arthur’s old poetry scrolls in the study all those years ago.

“And I have missed you, like the moon yearns for the sun after twilight. Your afterimage is burned into my mind’s eye.” Mordred whispered, almost as if he was afraid to utter the reply. It was theirs. Quietly, preciously theirs. “Galahad, if you’re sure the enchantment is broken, will you kiss me?”

Galahad nodded, soft and certain, and bent over his lover in an action that they had repeated a million times before. He pressed a kiss to Mordred’s lips. They were cracked and dry, and Galahad swore he tasted blood. It was painfully gentle, and far more tender than their first. When Galahad pulled back, some sort of peace had settled over Mordred. For a moment, they sat there, bathing in the peace that was the other’s presence. The three years apart seemed like nothing compared to the ease of simply being around each other again. It could not erase the gravity of the situation swirling around them, but here in this close little muffled tent, they could ignore it for a moment. 

“You really came for me. This is too good to be true. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to speak.” Mordred sighed, bringing his hands up to rest them on Galahad’s thighs as the other knight sat back. Galahad winced, both from the sentiment that had come out of Mordred’s mouth and the reminder of the sharp hip bones under his weight.

“How long?” Galahad asked, hating himself for needing to know. Mordred frowned, his face contorting in a way that told his partner that he was doing sums. As he counted, Galahad shifted his weight off of Mordred and settled next to him on the ground. The prince made a disgruntled sound and reached out again, determined to keep Galahad within reach.

“A year and a half, at count. You were gone a year, and then Percy got back, and I… There was an enchantment on the grail. It was fae, and then the voices started, and they took over and then...Then I… Oh Goddess.” Mordred got more frantic as he spoke, clutching tighter at Galahad’s hands as he frantically tried to sit up. “Is he ok? Galahad, is he ok? Did they live? I… I let Gareth get away, I watched him ride off.” He fisted his hands around the sides of Galahad’s armor, tugging at the jerkin he wore under it, frantically trying to leverage himself into a sitting position.”Did Holt live?”

“Shh, love, love it’s alright.” Galahad scrambled, Quickly folding into a cross-legged sitting position on the floor as he helped Mordred to sit up. He tugged the other man into his lap, cradling him close as Mordred’s panic mounted. Now was not the time for one of Mordred’s meltdowns. “He’s alive, I swear. Loholt’s just fine. He’s home, with Mama and Gareth. Baba told me that both of them are just fine.”

“No, you don’t understand!” Mordred sobbed, screwing his face up in frustration as Galahad tried in vain to keep him quiet. “I stabbed him. I sunk my fucking sword into his side. Right in front of everyone. I let him come close, I let him believe it was me, and then I stabbed him. My own brother. I swore, I swore I would never-”

“And he knows that. Gods, if anyone on the face of this planet knew that you would never do them harm, it’s Holt. He knew it wasn’t you. He knew you were enchanted. He was the one that sounded the alarm.” Galahad held his lover close, trying to reason with him. 

“But it was me.” Mordred whispered, suddenly quiet again. Galahad was grateful for that if nothing else. His spellwork was good, but not good enough to entirely muffle Mordred’s screaming. “I had control. I chose where to stab him. It was still me.”

“Then you chose to stab him where you knew it wouldn’t kill him. You let Gareth get to him and get away. You made sure they got a chance. You did what you had to do, and you did what you could for them.” Galahad reassured, kissing the crown of Mordred’s head as tears soaked into the skin of his neck. 

“I lost so much after that. I...That’s when I couldn’t talk anymore. I couldn’t act. They took over but I was aware the whole time. The enchantment was so strong. She’s so powerful, Gallie, she scares me so much. I can’t go back to that. I just can’t. Please, please you can’t make me.” The words spilled out of Mordred like water over rocks in a brook, faster than Galahad could catch in some places. He grimaced, thinking about the Queen of Air and Darkness that made Mordred so frantic. She had raised him, isolated, for twelve long years as Arthur’s bastard. She had made certain that he knew of his fae blood, of the control she had over him as a result. He was never her flesh. Never her child. But her half fae charge nonetheless. There hadn’t been a moment of his life that he hadn’t been aware that he was sired from the fae and an unwilling, and unwitting sire.

“Nobody’s going to make you. Da is on the other side of the clearing right now. He won’t let it happen. He’s got Baba, and most of the cavalry. We won’t let you go back if it takes everything we’ve got.” Galahad knew he was grasping at straws now, certain as he was that Arthur would do exactly that, and probably more if it meant assuring the safety of his child.

“They think I’m going to try to kill Da. I can’t. I won’t. I was trying so hard to die before tomorrow, Gallie, I was trying everything. I won’t. I won’t be the reason he isn’t-'' Mordred choked on the sentence, as if he couldn’t spit out the words that were trying to escape his brain. His anxiety was ramping back up again, something neither of them could afford. 

“No, no they don’t. That’s why they sent me. They know you’re trying. Now, how exactly were you trying to die? Are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself?” Galahad tried to be patient, calm, calculated. All the things that his Baba and Arthur had always managed to be during a crisis, even if they were losing their minds on the inside. 

“I haven’t eaten since they sent me out on this campaign. I was hoping I could kill myself with starvation. Or at least, be so weak that I couldn’t be anything but a liability on the battlefield. Well, that and I set my camp up like I used to. The guard is light, and changes often. They just assume I’m using Da’s tactics here, but why would I do that when I could use the same strategy that Amr managed to slit my throat with in his first war games? It was an invitation I was hoping that Gawain or Auntie Bran would see, but I guess not.” Mordred sighed, disappointed. It was as close to a normal conversation as they had had so far. Galahad could feel the bile rise at the back of his throat as he looked back on what he had assumed was a trap. It had been an invitation. One Arthur clearly hadn’t been willing to read. He thanked the gods that Arthur hadn’t sent one of his assassins in before he’d arrived. It would have destroyed him to get here, just to find out that everything was in vain. 

“Well, that’s fixable. As for the encampment, Little Bran thought it was a trap. And thank the gods she did. It gave me a chance to get here.” Galahad staunchly fought the wave of nausea that welled inside of him at the thought. That wasn’t what needed to be dealt with right now. What needed attention right now was fresh warding, food, water, a plan, and then sleep. In that order. “On that topic, let’s get off the ground and into bed. We need to sit and set up wards again, and I think it’ll work best if we do it together. Just like we used to.”

Galahad waited for Mordred to nod, wanting his consent before he did so much as shift his weight. Mordred had had precious little say in anything at all over the last few years, it was high time he had control something, even if it was as small as when they moved onto the war cot that had been provided. 

Mordred slowly clambered to his feet, wincing with the effort of dragging himself off the floor. He supported himself on the desk nearby, pulling himself up. It hurt to watch. Galahad quickly joined him in standing, and was quick to take one of his arms in order to support him over to his bed. They sank onto the edge of the thing together, pressed hip to hip and thigh to thigh, with Galahad’s arm threaded around Mordred’s shoulders as he held him close. 

“Together?” Mordred asked, suddenly unsure of himself. He hadn’t done his own magic in over a year and a half. Suddenly he doubted if the words were still within him.

“Together.” Galahad agreed, trying very hard to be reassuring as he pressed his free hand over the feather again. The sigil glowed and the feather emitted its energy, gifting him the magic he needed to cast protection over Mordred. In unison, they began to sing. The words were in the same foreign language in which Galahad had prayed to the Goddesses, a harmony woven together with the golden threads of their magic. It tied them together, surrounding Mordred and reweaving the protection he had carried with him for years until the Grail’s enchantment stripped him of it. It was a duet, simple, but in harmony, in a way that reminded Mordred of what it had been like to first set these enchantments. When Merlin and Morgan had sat with him and gently laid the groundwork for the initial protection. The same words. The same ritual. 

Gods, but life was different now. Merlin had been missing for years, much to Tristan and Palomedes’ distress, and Morgan had left for the Lake after handing the High Priesthood to Mordred. They both knew that now, they were the ones to carry these words. The High Priest of Albion and his Champion, pressed together in a cot in the center of an enemy camp. They sang together until the golden threads had seeped into Mordred, their gentle glow settling somewhere under Mordred’s skin. He still looked starved, gaunt and sickly, but somehow the magic had taken some of the sallowness from his skin. Galahad stopped slowly, letting Mordred sing the last notes as he wrapped his arms around him. His heart broke a little bit, feeling the familiar shape of his lover so diminished. 

“So. That’s done. Now we need to plan.” Mordred’s voice was determined in the extreme. It had the same velvet-coated-steel quality his father had acquired when Gawain proposed this plan not two hours before. His lip had split while he was singing, and a single oozing drop of blood from his lip. Galahad thoughtlessly reached up and wiped it away with his thumb, enjoying the chance to touch Mordred again. He tried hard not to think about the cause of the blood as he wiped it on his already red cloak. 

“We have one. But I think I made an assumption. Your army, do they just take orders from you?” Galahad asked, suddenly casting around for Mordred’s sword. It had to be in here. His armor, his sword, they would need it.

“Yes, since I murdered one of my appointed commanders in the command tent for disobeying me. I haven’t gotten much opposition since.” Mordred replied, enjoying sigh of relief and the smile it earned him. 

“Gawain’s plan was pretty simple. I make sure you’re sane, and then I convince you to surrender to our fathers tomorrow morning. We absorb your troops, turn on Agravaine, send him running home and get the cavalry back before the first snowfall. With her leverage and her claim to the throne gone, she’ll just have to sit up there and freeze.” Galahad explained, trying to keep his tone of voice and body language light.

Mordred nodded, considering the plan. “A lot of their consolidated resources and planning has been siphoned out of my knowledge. Taking me out of the equation undermines a lot of the planning that’s been done. Especially since everyone expects me to win this. Even if it’s just me, they’ll be leaderless tomorrow.” 

“Honestly, I don’t know what else I could hope for. So, we ride out tomorrow, meet for negotiations in the middle of the field, we stick my cloak on a spear, you go in without Clarent so that they know for sure that it’s us, and then we take you home.” Galahad explained, partially for his own benefit as well as for Mordred’s. 

“Home. Home sounds like a dream right now. How were Baba and Dad? You saw them tonight, right?” Mordred asked. He was starting to relax a little, more by choice than out of weakness. It was a normal enough question, one that would have been reassuring under more normal circumstances. 

“Tearful. I only rode in two hours before I showed up here, if that. They were just as shocked when I turned up as you were. I strongly suspect that they’re holed up in Dad’s tent bawling about it right now.” Galahad sighed, making a small face at the deeply parental reaction that he’d gotten from two thirds of people who had raised them. “Uncle Cei was more thrilled than tearful, and Auntie Bran was trying to be impartial. Little Bran just about handed me my ass. Gawain and the rest of the Orkneys were happy to profit off of my arrival, they’ll find the energy to be emotional when all of this is over. I think Gawain was most excited for the new way out of wasting lives than anything else.”

“I cannot believe I’m about to say this, but Gods Bless Gawain. Mama didn’t come?” Mordred confirmed, asking after the queen. It was no secret that she was his favorite parent. Everyone knew it. The whole country knew it.

“No, If I had a guess, I’d say she’s at home prepping for a siege. If Cei was out of the capitol, and Bedevere and Lu, I can’t imagine she’d be anywhere else.” Galahad mused, thinking about the state of the capitol.

“Fair enough,” Mordred mused crumpling gently onto his side on the cot and allowing Galahad some space to take off the heaviest of his armor. Galahad rose, responding to the cues for sleep and bed without being asked. “So did you really get Dad to cry in the command tent?” 

“He and Baba were both more than a little misty eyed. And they both hugged me. In front of people.” Galahad remarked, tugging his leather breastplate off and unbuckling his bracers and greaves. The feather in the sealskin was quickly tucked into an inner pocket of Galahad’s tunic, leaving it unmistakably close. It would not damage in the night, not even if he rolled on it. It was too powerful for that. He went and hung his cloak by the brazier to dry, providing the tent with slightly more darkness than before. Mordred was grateful for it, 

“Things must be really awful, if they both reacted like that.” Mordred sighed, watching as Galahad sank back on to the bedroll and tugged off Mordred’s tall cavalry boots. Mordred moved with him, allowing Galahad access to him as he required it. The whole ritual of this was familiar. Galahad had cared for him when he had been sick in other war camps, injured or weak from magic use. This, at least, was familiar. Galahad quickly stashed them under the bed.

“I would assume so. Again. I was there for long enough to get cried on, fed, pestered with questions, do some hasty spellwork and then get shuffled back onto my horse to come get you. So I might not have had the best pulsepoint on the timbre of the camp.” Galahad snarked, taking off his sword and hanging it on the stand next to Mordred’s. He would wear them both in the morning.

“Ah, yes. Sorry. I was just…” Mordred choked on his words again, his chest locked as he tried to breathe.

“Hey, it’s alright. You don’t need to apologize. I’m sure that Da will fill you in tomorrow. I just... I can’t tell you as much as I’d like to, because I’ve been unconscious for the better part of a year and a half too. I woke up a month ago, and I’ve only just managed to start riding again. Then I got the letter about you, and well, Iridia and I booked it here.” Galahad explained gently, coming to settle down next to Mordred again as he told his side of the story. “I have her stashed nearby, by the way. I’ll have to go get her before we ride tomorrow so I have a horse.” 

“But right now you’ll come to bed and hold me.” Mordred ordered. He had started breathing again. It was hard not to obey him when he used that tone of voice. Not because Galahad was being compelled or enspelled, but because he sincerely wanted to do what Mordred wanted. It was good to hear him so certain of anything mere minutes after he’d regained his freedom. But that was Mordred. He’d always known who he was, and even when he was traumatized beyond all measure, he was sure of what he wanted. The look that he held in his eyes was the same look that Mordred had in his eyes the day he turned up at the keep gates, asking for his father. It was a Mordred that was done letting others tell him what to do. 

Galahad quickly pulled off his own cavalry boots and stashed them next to Mordred’s, under the bed and out of the way. He then slipped behind his lover, cradling him as he always had. Campaign beds were notoriously tiny, and they both knew that it was more comfortable when they’d jammed sleeping rolls together, but tonight, this would have to do.

“You’ll be here when I wake up, right?” Mordred asked, shuffling around to make sure he was in reach of his knife and that Galahad had space for his arm. 

“I’ll be right here all night. I’ll wake you up myself. You won’t lose sight of me until we’re safe back in Da’s tent at the very least.” Galahad promised, kissing Mordred the back of his neck, right where he was most vulnerable. “This time tomorrow, we’ll be in the camp, asleep in one of our parent’s tents.” 

“Swear on it. Bring your words to truth, Galahad Du Lac.” Mordred’s voice sounded like a commandment from a god. 

Galahad did as he was commanded. “I swear to you. I swear on my blood. I swear on the Sovereign Goddess. By this time tomorrow, all will be well.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it for this part y'all! I've got more coming on this series, the story does not end here. But, this is a nice stopping off point. Stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hope you enjoyed chapter one of my Camlann fix it! This has been running around my head for years and I'm finally getting around to plastering it into the computer for everyone else to see too. Comments, criticisms and questions welcome, remember, your friendly neighborhood writers live on feedback! I'm @ Knight-of-the-Kitchen on Tumblr, feel free to bother me there too!


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